


Sweat

by GoddessofBirth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-29
Updated: 2012-04-29
Packaged: 2017-11-04 12:36:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoddessofBirth/pseuds/GoddessofBirth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He couldn't remember a time anymore when he hadn't wanted to fuck this man, hold him down and brand him, mark him on the inside just like he had marked his body and soul.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cedelede](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedelede/gifts).



It was so hot that the sweat of their bodies created a seal between them, a slippery slide of skin that kept either one of them from running away, even if they'd thought better of this thing at the last minute. Dark, dirty warehouse; glass and grime and Go- _who_ knew what else smearing the windows and the walls and the floors, reminders of death and fate and humanity, and he couldn't even see or care right now, any more than he could give attention to the concrete scratch beneath his knees, the little pieces of asphalt that were probably cutting into his flesh as he pressed his weight against them.

 

All he could feel was the ragged breathing of the man beneath him, the lean muscles of the back fitted against his chest, the give of the shoulder under his teeth as he moved in and over this infuriating, confusing, so  _human_ of a man he alternately wanted to shake senseless and then protect from any more hurts of this world

 

And fuck. And fuck. And  _fuck._ Oh Go- 

 

The two men moaned in tandem as he slipped just a little further inside, and he was saved the trouble of trying to come up with a different phrase, which was good, because he couldn't remember a time anymore when he hadn't wanted to fuck this man, hold him down and brand him, mark him on the inside just like he had marked his body and soul. And now that they had finally given in, good sense and reservations overcome by desperation and fear and need, need, need, he didn't see how he could ever stop.

 

'Never again,' he rasped into the other man's ear, his voice sounding more like the soldier he truly was than the mild mannered man he usually appeared to be, 'You will  _never_ put yourself in this type of situation again. This was foolish, even for you. Promise me.' He bit down on his shoulder again to emphasize the words, because what if the idiot hadn't broken down and called for him in the last minute? What if he'd kept to that stupid, stubborn, awe inspiring pride he and his brother had apparently spent years cultivating.

 

What if he had...Oh Go-

 

Fuck it.  _Oh God_ , he groaned, as the man beneath him shuddered; shivered into his palms and his hips and his mouth, and he slid a hand up and around his thigh, touching, gripping, stroking, testing this new kind of power, this intoxicating grace.

 

In the sounds of them falling apart, of breaking into a million pieces and then putting each other back together again – and with so many fragments, it seemed impossible for them not to have somehow exchanged a few pieces in the process – he almost missed the gritty, gasped answer. Almost missed the tremble and sigh, the millisecond of wall lowering, the admittance to needing something other than himself and his brother and that silly, cramped, outdated car that he loved so much.

 

'Jesus... _fuck_ ...yes, goddamn it. Yes. But you gotta...Ca- '

 

That was when they made broken sounds, that weren't words, but were, because they explained all the mysteries in the universe, and then he gasped again before he finished.

 

'You gotta promise not to go again.'

 

And when they were finally breathing again, lying on their backs and staring at the singed ceiling of the room, breath obscenely loud in the echoing silence of the space, he reached out and pressed his hand hard against the blond man's shoulder, against mark and scars and invisible cracks.

 

It was the only answer he could give.


End file.
